I probably don’t come across as the type of person who makes time to bake her own bread. Yet, I do. English pap is rubbish if ever there was one, and expensive too. Not that the expense of a loaf of bread matters to me if only it [the bread] were worth it. It isn’t. If there is one complaint, apart from all the others, that visitors from mainland Europe – where breadmaking is an ART – will make: It’s about the dismal results of your average British bakery. So putting myself out to bake the bake is a form of self-defense.
Except sometimes, like just now, it backfires. I put my dead-foolproof-put-together-in-five-minutes dough onto a shelf in the conservatory (that’s a south-facing wintergarten to most of us) to RISE thus allowing it to double its size. Rise it did. Naturally I forgot all about it. Now the enthusiastically rising dough has spilled itself all over onto some of my paper files temporarily stored on the shelf underneath. Which means that I have just realised the beauty of reaching a certain age: You are past caring. And no one, other than myself and readers of this blog, will ever know how I bodge my life.
The loaf is in the oven.
U
